Aequitas, Veritas
by Cenire
Summary: Equality and truth -- Harry believes in these things. Even when it comes to an old enemy. 1/?


            Harry put down the morning edition of the Daily Prophet and frowned into his coffee.  His dour reflection frowned back at him, which irritated Harry even more.  He shoved the cup away, slopping coffee off the sides and onto the crumb-riddled kitchen table.

            _Draco Malfoy Found Guilty!_  The headline wavered jubilantly.  Below the undulating text a defeated-looking Draco Malfoy was being led from the Ministry in chains.  His hair hung limply around his bowed head and he refused to look at the camera as he was hustled out of frame.  

            Harry tossed the paper across the grimy kitchen in disgust.  It landed in a pile of filth next to the bin, unsettling a small swarm of fruit flies in the process.  They circled angrily for a minute before zipping off towards the sink to resettle themselves on a stack of dirty dishes.

            _This is all my fault_, thought Harry.  _If I hadn't dropped out of Hogwarts, if I would have kept an eye on him, this never would have happened.  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood purposefully.  __I'll talk to Dumbledore, he thought with resolve.  His shoulders slumped.  Dumbledore had no reason to help him.  He was no longer Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.  He was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Failed.  There was no one in Hogwarts that would help him.  Indeed, he doubted there was anyone in the wizarding world that would help him now.  Especially if they knew his motive centered on clearing Malfoy's name.  Harry sat back down in the kitchen chair and ran an idle hand through his hair.  As usual, it stubbornly continued to stick out in any direction it pleased._

            There was one place he could go.  But he hadn't been there since...  His mind refused to follow the thought to completion.  But what his mind would not do, his instincts could.  This was going to require a shower and some muggle clothing.

            Harry paid the cabbie and turned to face the row of houses in front of him.  Not being able to Apparate made getting around the wizarding world incredibly difficult, but he hadn't stayed at Hogwarts long enough to take his test.  Now he was dependent on the Floo Network, portkeys and, when those failed, muggle transit.  He supposed he could have flooed himself here, but feared the effect his sudden appearance might have on people.

            _Not just people_, he thought to himself.  _The Order of the __Phoenix.  _

            Harry marked the house numbers as they went up the street:  number ten, number eleven, number thirteen...  Yes, it was just as he remembered it.  He remembered standing in this very spot four years ago.  It seemed ages.  He remembered the piece of parchment Moody had thrust into his Disillusioned hand.  

            _Number twelve, Grimmauld Place_, it had said.  And, just like that long ago day, there it was squeezing in between numbers eleven and thirteen.  Harry approached the door quickly, prepared to knock, and thought better of it.  Best to just get inside and let the house go back to hiding itself.  Harry put his hand out and groped the air.  No knob.

            "Bugger," he said to no one in particular.  He reached for his wand, hoping that a quick tap would do the job.  He reached inside of his jacket, his fingers just closing around the base of it when several things happened at once.  A wand stabbed at his back, an arm came up from behind him and caught him around the throat and a voice whispered menacingly in his ear.

            "Put both your hands where I can see them.  Then turn around slowly.  Very, _very_ slowly."

            Harry complied, slowly removing his hands from his jacket and raising them to shoulder height.  The owner of the arm loosened the grip enough to allow Harry to turn around.

            "Harry?  What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

            "I'd ask the same of you Ron."  Harry fought back a smile.  So long since he had seen any of his old friends, so long alone...

            Ron looked on the verge of smiling himself, when suddenly his face clouded over again.  "You shouldn't be here, Harry.  It's not safe."

            "Nowhere's safe anymore, Ron." Harry glanced up and down the street, which was thankfully empty at the moment. "Can we talk, you know, inside?"

            Ron looked dubious.  "I dunno Harry.  It's nothing personal y'see, but I dunno how everyone would feel if I let..."  Ron's eyes paused in their scrutiny of the pavement to flick up to Harry's face.  Harry's hollow eyes held Ron's for a moment and the red-haired boy grimaced.  "Bollocks to 'em."  He pulled out his wand with a flourish and tapped the door, which sprung open obligingly.  Harry ducked inside, followed by Ron.  The door shut itself.  

            Harry looked around the entry of the ancestral Black home, remembering how dark, damp, and utterly infested the place had been the first time he had come here.  Now, the walls were painted a sensible beige, the heavy drapes had been replaced with tasteful sheers and the place had an overall cheerier air.

            Ron noticed Harry gawking at the state of the house.

            "Mum's been using decorating as her new therapy.  She and Hermione finished cleaning the place a while ago and since then she's been on a mission to get rid of, well, everything the late Mrs. Black left behind."

            "I don't suppose Kreacher liked that very much," Harry said absently.

            "Well, actually...  when... when..."  Ron seemed unsure if he should continue, but Harry looked at him expectantly.  "Kreacher ran away when...  Sirius died."

            Harry only nodded.  "I suppose I should have expected as much."  Harry was inwardly ashamed that he felt nothing at the mention of his late Godfather.  He hadn't felt much of anything lately except for apathy and self-loathing.  "I suppose he's gone to the Malfoys, then.  I hope Lucius beats him," Harry said, feeling suddenly very hateful and vicious.  The strength of his emotion surprised and frightened him, especially considering it had been four years ago that Kreacher had told his lie.  A small lie, otherwise insignificant.  But it had been enough.

            Harry slammed his hand down, open palm, on a small cherry end table.  The knick-knacks on it shuddered violently.  

            "Ron, can I have some tea?  I'm not... not feeling very well."

            Ron nodded so fast Harry thought he might shake his head off and led Harry down to the kitchen.  Harry sank gratefully onto one of the long benches around the kitchen table.  

            "So," his mind raced, trying to think of some kind of small talk to make to bridge the uncomfortable silence while Ron made tea.  "Where is everyone?  I thought they're be crawling all over this place, having secret meetings, making secret plans on how to save the world and all that."  Ron stopped clanking crockery together and Harry saw his back stiffen.  _That_, thought Harry,_ was quite possibly the most asinine thing I could have said.  I need to get out more._  "Ron, I'm sorry.  That was a stupid thing to say.  I don't know what came-- no, I won't lie.  To you or myself.  I'm lonely, bitter and washed up at nineteen.  That's what came over me, held me down and removed all good sense from my brain."

            Ron resumed making the tea.

            "I can't hold it against you, I suppose," Ron said, his back still to Harry.  "I can't imagine I would be holding up any better in your position.  In the future though," Ron set a hot mug of tea in front of Harry, "you really ought to think before you speak.  If, that is, you want to live long enough to redeem yourself."

            Harry picked up his mug.  "I'm touched you think that something like redemption is actually in my power.  Snowballs have better chances in hell, but really, thank you for the vote of confidence."

            "Harry, the only reason I can assume you've come here when no one's seen neither hide nor hair of you in two years is that you have a plan.  Or an idea.  Or a feeling.  With you they all pretty much lead to the same thing.  I find it very hard to believe you just wanted to call on your old Hogwarts chums after holing yourself up in a scummy flat and sulking for _four bloody years."  Harry jumped when Ron raised his voice, but Ron leaned across the table and continued yelling in Harry's face.  "Not a single word, no owls, _nothing_.  I mean, even a 'Sorry I fucked up, I'm going to sod off and have a sulk' would have been _nice_."  Ron stared at Harry, and Harry stared emptily back.  "Bloody hell.  You really can be a dense, self-centered git sometimes.  I'm glad to see you continued studying _something_ after you left Hogwarts."_

            "Ron, if you're done abusing me, I think I'd like to leave now.  Coming here was obviously a mistake."

            "I-" Ron began.

            "He might be done, but I haven't even started yet."  Harry jumped so hard his legs knocked the underside of the table, spilling hot tea into his lap.

            "Fuck!"  Harry leapt up and began trying to brush the liquid off his jeans, but the tea was already soaking in.

            "I haven't seen you in four years and _that_ is the first word out of your mouth when you see me?  Good show, Harry."  Hermione leaned against the doorframe and regarded Harry with equal parts contempt and amusement.  "Honestly," she sighed as Harry continued to dance around the kitchen in pain.  Even Ron's mouth was curling into a smile at the corners, though he was trying to fight it.

            When the burning sensation finally subsided, Harry turned to Hermione who was still propped in the doorway.  "Good to see you again, Hermione," he said, trying to smile.  A small knot of fear had settled in his stomach.  Harry would have found it difficult to say why he was afraid of Hermione, but he guessed it had something to do with the fact she was a woman.  Who also happened to be angry.  Harry braced himself for the worst.

            She brushed past him airily.  Harry could feel the chill radiating off of her.  "So, what have you been up to these past four years?  Planning your comeback?  Plotting to subdue Voldemort?  Or perhaps," she put down the mug she had retrieved from the cabinet and turned to face him, "you've been off having the worlds' longest sulk."  She raised an eyebrow at him and then promptly turned back around and began pouring herself a cup of tea.

            "None of that, actually," Harry began, trying to sound much more confident than he felt.  "I've been thinking of going back to Hogwarts, actually."  Ron look puzzled.  Hermione snickered.  "Oh honestly.  You'd be the oldest sixth year in Hogwarts history.  Besides the fact you'd be even more ostracized now then you were during your first go 'round.  Now, what have you really been doing?  And don't lie again please, because I don't appreciate being lied to."

            "Ok, I haven't been thinking about going back to Hogwarts.  I...  I don't know why I came."  Somehow, the thought of telling the truth, of telling them about Malfoy never even crossed Harry's mind.

            "That's lie number two.  One more and I shall escort you from the premises for entering the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix under false pretenses."

            Ron glanced at Hermione.  "There're rules about that sort of thing?"

            "Of course there are rules about that sort of thing.  It's all in the bylaws of the Order, Ron!  Don't tell me you haven't read them?"

            "Well, not exactly, y'see I had them up in my room and I _was _going to read them but then Fred--"

            "Ronald Weasley!  You are a full-fledged member of the Order of the Phoenix and you haven't even _read the bylaws_?

            "Well, not strictly speaking, no, but I--"

            "That is simply shameful.  I shall have to bring this up to Dumbledore before our next meeting.  I simply don't understand how--"

            "Dumbledore?  He's _here_?"  Harry interrupted Hermione's tirade.  She looked slightly miffed that Harry had cut her off before she could achieve the proper level of righteous indignation over Ron's lack of familiarity with the bylaws of the Order.

            "Well, yes.  He is here.  He's acting Head of the Order right now," Ron explained.

            Hermione shot daggers at Ron with her eyes.  "Ron, you really can't divulge that sort of information to someone outside the Order."

            "But it's _Harry," Ron protested._

            "Rules are rules, Ron, and they exist for a reason.  Maybe he's not Harry.  Maybe it's an agent of Voldemort under the influence of Polyjuice potion.  And even if he _is_ Harry, how can you possibly know what his intentions are after not having seen or heard from him in _four bloody years_?!"

            "Erm, excuse me?"  Harry interrupted Hermione's rant for a second time.  "But do you think you could manage to _not_ talk about me as if I weren't sitting right in front of you?"

            Ron and Hermione looked at him as though just realizing for the first time he was sitting there in the kitchen.

            "Look, do you think I could at least speak to Dumbledore?" asked Harry.

            "I don't think that's wise, really," said Hermione.

            "Look, Voldemort fears Dumbledore more than any other wizard.  You said it yourself, Hermione.  And even if I'm only an agent of Voldemort masquerading as Harry Potter, what chance would I stand against Dumbledore?  Just, at least let me see him," Harry's eyes flicked back and forth between Ron and Hermione.  "Please," he added softly.


End file.
